


avec moi

by stellaviatorii



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, F/F, Gen, Implied James Bond/Q, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Movie(s), Q speaks French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaviatorii/pseuds/stellaviatorii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Madeleine, <i>after</i> consists of cafe au lait and a Quartermaster in the bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	avec moi

**Author's Note:**

> a super self-indulgent fic based on a little headcanon of mine. I might continue this?? idk ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Coup de grâce tasted like salt under Madeleine’s tongue. It rubbed against her salivary glands and made friends with the back of her throat so that every time she saw a gun she would want to throw it all up again. She could eat her words for years, avoid the bitter chew of her father’s past, but it just came back on the wings of a Beretta and a bad mood.

Accepting M’s offer as an MI6 psychologist felt like blowing the barrel, lips slick with Daddy’s blood.

She avoided Bond. It wasn’t a conscious decision - a neuron deep in the depths of her brain backfired at the thought of taking him to bed for a second time. The first had been stress relief: any more would be prompted by a knife to her throat. They chatted amiably, made the smallest of talks, and he went back to killing people professionally. Really, in the grand scheme of things, stepping away from an imploding star system is a wiser choice than being destroyed with it.

In a glass cage, she turned the minds of secret agents between her hands and realised how lucky she was to be alive.

Three weeks into her new job, M’s secretary - _“Eve Moneypenny, pleased to meet you.”_ \- fluttered on the edges of her vision. _Un papillon à une flamme_ , she didn’t quite dance: Moneypenny radiated the kind of warmth Madeleine hadn’t breathed in years and it was curious how easily they began to rotate each other. If she were a little girl, her schoolyard friends would have called this a crush. 

But she was a woman, so she stiffened her back and nodded politely and refused to think about how she wanted Moneypenny to touch her when their eyes met over coffee.

The English didn’t do coffee right, which was a damn shame, because if they did Madeleine would kiss the crème froth from those full, plush lips. She could tell Moneypenny liked the quainter things in life, the simple but beautiful things, the quintessentially French things. It would be so easy to fall in love with her.

It would be so easy to leave as well.

“ _Merde_ ,” she muttered, digging around in her handbag for a stray tube of lipstick. The third floor unisex bathroom was thankfully devoid of staff members, so she could have her minor existential crisis in peace. Well, relative peace. Her cheeks were still flushed from when Moneypenny smiled at her that morning. “Foutre, où es tu?”

In her scrambling, the lipstick tripped out of her side pocket and clattered to the ground. She huffed in frustration and bent down to retrieve it when the main bathroom door opened and a pale hand snatched it up first.

“Ah! Merci - Q?” Madeleine frowned, watching as it was plucked from the tiled floor. The Quartermaster smiled politely and inclined his head.

“De rien.”

It took a moment for her to realise what he said. “Tu parle français?”

“Oui. Oh, um,” Q hastily handed over the lipstick, fumbling with its casing as he did. “My aunt lives in Nice,” he added as she placed it back in her handbag.

“Very _nice_ ,” Madeleine smirked, startling a laugh out of the man. He was strung like a fibre cable, stretched thin from one pole to another, and just looking at him made her feel tense. Bond had the same effect - _maybe they would be good for each other,_ she humoured, _two elastic bands poised to snap together._ “You can come by my office, if you like, and practice your French.”

Q winced. “Is it really that bad?”

“No, just a bit…” she waved her hand around, “tourist.” She regretted the words the moment they passed her teeth; though his expression didn’t change, Q’s demeanour did. She was a psychologist and she damn well knew how to read disappointment in the lines of someone’s haunched spine. “A very good tourist, though. Maybe a Canadian.” 

It prodded another titter of a laugh from him and, thankfully, the rigid stave of his shoulders relaxed. “Well, thank you - merci,” he corrected himself, edging around her to the sinks. “I might take you up on that offer, actually. There’s a rather good place in Chelsea that serves the best cafe au lait in London, and I’ve been dying to go there with someone who appreciates that kind of thing.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Quartermaster?” 

Q started, splashing water onto his jumper. “What? No! Uh,” he flushed, looking down at the sodden mess. “Sorry, I mean, you’re a lovely woman and all, but I don’t really swing that way. At all. Ever.” He paused, brow furrowed. “I make Stephen Fry look like Nigel Farage, actually.”

Madeleine couldn’t help but throw her head back and chortle. “I was kidding, mon ami,” she swatted at his arm, pleased to see a genuine grin bloom across his face. “I know. You’re not my type anyway.”

Bolder now, Q turned to her with glittering eyes. “Your type is more like our dear Miss Moneypenny, is it not?”

“Fiend,” she gasped, mocking despair. Beneath the facade, however, a tiny part of her cringed at the recognition. She prided herself on keeping her aces smuggled close to her chest. A skinny little man with the faintest French connection shouldn’t be able to hack his way around a tightly clenched fist. “If I accept your offer, will you stay quiet?”

“Maybe,” Q said. “If I keep quiet about your blatantly obvious crush, can I use the bathroom in peace?”

Madeleine squinted at him, deciding quickly that he wasn’t in here out of necessity. The grip on his phone, recently fished from his tight trouser pocket, told a different story. “Of course,” she replied, gathering her things and walking towards the exit. “Oh, and Q? Amuse toi bien.”

The memory of his brilliantly red cheeks stayed with her as she floated down the hall, the gun between her lips beginning to slacken. On a whim, she plucked out her own phone and hit send on the pre-written text she had agonised over for weeks.

To: Eve  
_Dinner?_

No matter the reply, she was bulletproof.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://pretentieuxtitre.tumbl.com)


End file.
